Breathe Me
by MapleTreeway
Summary: "God I'm so fat." "No, Alfred. You're not. You're –" "Stop it! I am and you know it! The whole world knows! Just stop okay?" Trigger Warning, Human AU, and F.A.C.E. Family.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello!**

**So this story is going to have a Trigger Warning, as there are mentions of verbal abuse and self-harm and eating disorders and suicidal thoughts later on. I'm just putting that out there because I don't want anyone to relapse.**

**Summary: "God I'm so fat." "No, Alfred. You're not. You're –" "Stop it! I am and you know it! The whole world knows! Just stop okay?" Trigger Warning, Human AU, and F.A.C.E. Family.**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Alfred got on the scale and sighed. This was the twentieth time in ten days he'd weighed in; and even though he worked out like the world was ending, his weight wasn't dropping. Not even five pounds were gone. What the hell? Was the scale broken? Was he not working out enough? Alfred furrowed his brow as he read the revolting number again. His stomach churned, something obviously wasn't right.

So he got off the scale and tried again.

Then again when the same number showed...

…And again…

Each time the scale showed the horrible number of 180 and the American wanted to scream. But he didn't. His parents and brother were still sleeping and he didn't have the heart to wake them yet. Well, Matthew anyway. He could care less if he woke his parents up. Wait, scratch that. He _did _care because he knew he'd get ripped into just like every other time he made a mistake.

Turning away from the scale with disgust, Alfred looked into the bathroom mirror. His blue eyes reflected back slightly duller than normal and dark circles hung underneath them from lack of sleep. Blonde hair framed his face and was tousled in all different directions with his usual cowlick. To Alfred none of this mattered, all that mattered – all that he could _see_ – were how chubby his cheeks were. Pinching said cheeks; he pulled the skin as far as it could and whimpered when he saw the result. God, why did he have to be so damn _fat_?

Alfred let go and took off his shirt to examine his stomach instead. He turned this way and that, looking at himself in the mirror. His stomach seemed to bulge over his boxer's waistline even though it barely did. And the blonde despised that. He despised that so much. Why couldn't he just have some abs? Would that be too much? All his friends had abs. Ludwig, Gilbert, Antonio, Berwald, Vash – all those guys had at least a two-pack. And some of them didn't even work out regularly!

The American growled and clenched his fists, completely disgusted with himself. He didn't look in the mirror after that, opting to take a shower as an alternative. So he shed his boxers and turned the water on as hot as it could go. Perhaps the steam would help sweat out a few more calories.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Alfred walked out of the bathroom clean and refreshed wearing his clothes for the day: A pair of dark-washed jeans, a plain white shirt, his glasses, and his beloved bomber jacket that he constantly wore. His hair was brushed (except for that one cowlick that refused to behave), and overall he looked far better than when he'd woken up. Except that he didn't feel any better, not really.

Alfred quietly made his way down to the kitchen in search of some breakfast. Maybe the rest of his family wasn't up yet and he could eat whatever he wanted. Yes, that would be nice. No Dad to pester him about what he ate and how much. No Papa to agree and then pester him about his clothing. And, even though Alfred loved him, no Mattie to just stand in the shadows and watch only to console him later on. _It would be a nice break, _the sixteen-year-old mused somewhat happily, bounding down the last set of steps. He was about to turn the corner and walk straight into the kitchen when his hopes were suddenly dashed by the sound of tea cups clinking. Alfred inwardly groaned. It looked like his dad was up. _Maybe I should just go back upstairs, _he thought. His stomach suddenly gurgled with hunger though and so the teenager clenched his fists and mentally steeled himself. He was going into the kitchen, he was going to make breakfast, say hello to Dad, eat, ignore whatever pestering, and then leave. That was his plan and it was going to work, damn it!

Alfred strode into the kitchen and sure enough, there was his dad fixing some tea. The man's back was to him, so he hadn't noticed his son come in, but the boy could tell he was pissed about something by the stiffness in which he held himself. He was dressed in a collar shirt with some jeans, so Alfred guessed he was going to go teach at the University today, and his untamable blonde hair was brushed as neat as it could be.

After a moment or two, Alfred decided to make his presence known. "Hey Dad," he said casually, heading toward the refrigerator.

His dad whipped around quick and his green eyes narrowed along with his bushy eyebrows. "Good morning, Alfred," he answered, his British accent thick. "How long have you been in the shower for this time?"

"Not long."

"Not long?"

"Yep."

"Explain because if I counted correctly you were in there for quite some time, young man."

"Dad, it was just a quick shower. It's not like I committed a crime," Alfred reasoned, rolling his eyes.

"'It's not like I committed a crime'," His dad mocked cruelly. "I wouldn't be surprised if you did. Heaven forbid if the nearest McDonald's gets robbed because of you. How long were you in the shower?"

"I thought you already knew."

"Stop talking back and answer me."

"Well, I dunno. Probably twenty minutes, why?"

His dad snorted and took a sip of tea. "Twenty minutes, my arse. You were in there for _forty _minutes. Do you know how much water you are wasting, Alfred? Has that ever occurred in your egotistical mind?"

Alfred winced because yes, yes it had.

Quickly, he got out the orange juice and poured himself a glass before moving towards the pantry. All the while his dad was ranting on and on about water bills and the drought and all kinds of things. He stopped his lecture only when Alfred pulled out the newly bought Nutella jar. Green eyes scrutinized it as the teenager opened the lid, grabbed a piece of bread, grabbed a knife, and started to smear the Nutella all over the bread like it was butter and jam.

"What the devil are you eating? Is that chocolate? In the morning?" Alfred's dad asked, disgusted.

Alfred made a noise of agreement before saying, "Gilbert said that this thing was 'as awesome as Gilbird'."

"Who's Gilbird?"

"His pet bird."

"He's comparing food to a bird, now? Blimey that's ridiculous."

"Not really, I think what he meant was that it tasted pretty good. So I bought a jar to try."

"Well," Alfred's dad exclaimed, "It's not like you need to anyway."

Alfred looked up from his chocolate-covered bread and furrowed his brow. "Why?" He asked.

As soon as he asked that, he wished he didn't. He really, _really_ wished he didn't because he _knew _what his dad was going to say. And quite frankly, he didn't think he could take anymore shit about his weight.

The Brit smirked over his cup of tea, knowing that he had his son right where he wanted him. "It's not like," he started icily, "you need any more calories or food. Look at you, Alfred! You're already fat enough as it is, or do you not get that?"

Alfred grit his teeth and said nothing, instead pushing away his breakfast. His appetite was gone now.

But his dad continued on relentlessly. "Oh so you're pushing away your food? What a waste. Aren't you going to eat it?" When the teenager shook his head, he said, "No? Lost your appetite? Well that's a first. If only you worked out more and ate less maybe then you'd lose weight. Wouldn't you think so, Francis?"

Alfred turned around to see his other dad - or the one he called "Papa" - come into the kitchen. He was already dressed for his work as a fashion designer (which basically was just stylish clothes he'd designed) and his long, wavy blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Upon hearing his husband's snide remark, he shrugged and replied in his French enunciation, "Oh but Arthur, doesn't Alfred already work out?"

Alfred thanked the stars that at least _someone _had noticed. Meanwhile, Arthur scowled and defended, "Well yes, I guess so, if running in the morning and night counts as 'working out'."

"I also do push-ups and curl-ups," Alfred pointed out.

"See? He's doing just fine," Francis said, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder. Then as an afterthought, he stated, "Now if he would get some new clothes…"

"You know what?" The American exclaimed, feeling sick of the conversation and glancing at the clock. 6:45. School didn't start until 7:15, and it took a half-hour to walk to school from his house. "I'm going to be late for school. Where's Mattie at?"

"Mathieu? Good question, I do not know. Hold on, is this Nutella?" The Frenchman asked, picking up the jar.

"Yes Papa, it is. Dad, do you know where he is?"

Arthur had turned back around to refill his empty cup when Alfred had spoken up. But now he looked over his shoulder and simply said, "Gilbert came by while you were wasting water. He's already gone."

Alfred groaned. It looked like he was on his own today. _Again_. This wasn't the first time it had happened; in fact it had started when Alfred introduced Gilbert to Matthew last year. The German – _Prussian!_ – and the Canadian had hit it off and now were best friends. Anything Gilbert did, Matthew was somehow involved. It wasn't that Alfred was jealous, per say, it was just that sometimes he missed his brother and grew lonesome. But only _sometimes..._

"Oi!" Arthur snapped. "Are you going to school or not?"

"Oh! …Yeah…I'm goin', I'm goin'," Alfred mumbled, turning to walk out of the kitchen. Waving a hand, he said, "Bye."

The Brit merely said a half-hearted, "Good bye."

The Frenchman, however, looked over his shoulder and caught Alfred's eyes. "Alfred, _mon fils_, do you have your lunch?" He inquired.

The American's stomach lurched and knotted at the same time when the word "lunch" was brought up. Truth was, was he hadn't been planning on eating anything today. He didn't want the extra calories and besides, lunch was stupid. Who ate it anyway? Not him, that was for sure. Skipping lunch wouldn't be a bad thing, it would help him actually. But Francis wouldn't see it that way. He'd make him pack a lunch and he'd make sure he'd eat it, forced or not. Coughing nervously, Alfred lied, "Yeah. It's in my backpack. Gotta run! Bye!"

The last he saw when he exited the kitchen was his papa narrowing his blue eyes suspiciously, lips in a tight line. The teenager quickly grabbed his backpack from where it lay by the door and rushed outside. He was sure that if he had stayed any longer, Francis would hold him back and ask questions. And Alfred didn't want that. He didn't want his papa - or anyone - to know about anything that was going on.

Because all he wanted was to be skinny and not fat. Was that too much?

* * *

_**Translations:**_

_Mon fils – _My son **(French)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: *Squeals happily* Thank you all so much for the support! I honestly had no idea this story would attract so much attention. But it did, and I'm happy, so here's an early update ^J^**

**If you want to know why I didn't respond to your reviews personally, read my profile. Just know that it has **_**nothing**_** to do with you, dear reader. Hopefully you understand? Please don't hate me…**

**Roman Empire is Signor Vargas and Herr Beilschmidt is Germania, by the way. It's not one of the Italian or German brothers xD**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

The bell rang just as Alfred stepped inside the classroom. Mr. Adnan, the homeroom and Physical Education teacher, glanced meaningfully at him to take his seat in the back. When the blonde did, the teacher walked up to the front and greeted, _"Sınıf Merhaba."_

"_Merhaba öğretmenim," _Alfred and the class responded back, rolling their eyes. Why they had to greet each other in Turkish, the American had no clue. It wasn't as if this was Turkish Class, so what was the point? Yeah, it sounded cool when Mr. Adnan said it; but that was only because he was a native speaker. Whenever Alfred – _not_ a native speaker – tried saying it aloud to himself, it sounded stupid and clumsy. Most of the other students in the class sounded like that too. But the teacher refused to be greeted any other way, so the only way to go was one way and one way only: Speak Turkish.

_It's not _so_ bad,_ Alfred thought unwillingly, pulling out a pen and tapping it against his desk to create a rhythm. The teacher didn't seem to notice or care and had started to call out roll-call.

The noise seemed to annoy those sitting near him, though. And a small, petite girl with platinum blonde hair sitting in front of him turned around and shot him a nasty look. When he ignored her, she hissed, "Stop that, you stupid American."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "What makes you think I'm stupid, sweetheart?" he asked.

Dark blue eyes met icily with his light blue ones and the girl simply stated, "All Americans are stupid."

"You'd be surprised, Nat. Not all of 'em are. Besides, it's not like you Belarusians are any better either."

"My name is Natalya, not Nat!"

"Well nice to meet you _Natalya_, my name's Alfred," Alfred mocked, sticking out his hand and smirking.

Natalya's face twisted in fury, but oddly she didn't do anything. For a second the American wondered just what the Belarusian was up to, until he saw her eyes sizing him up. That got him to stop smirking pronto and all he could think about was: _Oh god, what if she sees how fat I am?_

He put his hands on his lap and squirmed in his seat uncomfortably. Normally, when he didn't feel so bloated, he would seize the opportunity to say, "You like what you see?" while striking a pose. That question and pose made most of the girls blush and look away, while others simply scowled and glared at him. But today was not one of those days for Alfred. Today he didn't think he could pull it off, least of all to Natalya, who was now narrowing her eyes. To be quite frank, all he wanted to do now was to shrink out of eyesight and disappear. At least until he wasn't as fat. Maybe then he would have the guts to try his little act on her.

Alfred was about to say something – anything to distract her, really – when Mr. Adnan's voice boomed, "Natalya Arlovskaya! Alfred F. Jones! Stop flirting with each other and pay attention!"

Both students jumped in surprise and Natalya quickly turned around muttering, "I wasn't flirting with him."

The teacher seemed to have heard and his gaze hardened albeit with some amusement. "Then what exactly were you two doing?"

Natalya scowled at him and snapped, "None of your business, old man!"

A murmur of "ooohhh" went around the classroom and some people snickered. The teacher quirked an eyebrow at her, shaking his head disapprovingly. But the girl didn't lighten up her stare or apologize, rather she sat as straight as she could and glared harder. Alfred got the message she was trying to convey. _I am sticking to my words and not apologizing. _It appeared Mr. Adnan got it too, because the words he were about to say died on his tongue. Instead, he said, "Touché, Natalya, touché. Just know next time I will not tolerate such behavior. So this is Warning Number 1 for you, _matmazel._

"As for you, Alfred," he continued, "kindly do not distract your fellow students. This is also your warning. Are we clear?"

Both students nodded at their teacher.

A small smile broke out on Mr. Adnan's face. "Good," he exclaimed before turning his attention back to roll-call.

Alfred didn't even begin to try to pay attention now; he knew that Mr. Adnan knew that he was present. So with nothing to do, he got out his spiral notebook from his backpack. It was a ragged and beaten up red notebook that the American used at least once a week to draw or doodle in. Whether it was for fun or to get away from reality, he would make cartoons of superheroes saving the day and villains having their asses whooped. He admired that about superheroes. How they always, _always _trumped their opponent. Even the women superheroes like Wonder Woman did. And how they had these kickass sidekicks (who were hot, Alfred had to admit) that would help out the hero and were loyal to him/her (most of the time). Or how they always got the girl…

But the part that Alfred admired most was how heroic and selfless superheroes were. That goal to protect people - to rescue them when they were in trouble - appealed to him far greater than all the others. And Alfred swore up, down, and across his heart that he would be the superhero for somebody someday. Even when he had been a small child in the orphanage alone with Matthew, he swore it.

_But who would want a fat superhero? _His dad's voice cut into his thoughts suddenly, a sharp edge of a knife. Alfred gritted his teeth and flung the notebook papers to a new page, which was toward the back. Quickly, he pressed the pen into the page and started to draw. He needed a distraction, and he needed it _now._

A few moments later, just as the blonde teenager was immersing himself into the comic, someone flung a note at him. It hit him in the face and dropped onto the ground. Alfred looked up, half annoyed and half curious, to see who had thrown the note, but the only clue he got was Natalya turning swiftly around in her chair. He raised an eyebrow at her back and picked up the paper wondering what she had written on it. _It's just probably her blaming something on me, _he thought. Quickly, he glanced around to make sure Mr. Adnan wasn't nearby; and when he saw that he wasn't did he open the note.

But as soon as Alfred read it, he wished he didn't. It seemed as though someone _had_ noticed after all, and that thought was almost too much to bear. Alfred wanted to scream. He wanted to curse and punch the walls. He wanted to run and exercise forever and ever until his body collapsed_. _But the one thing he wanted to do the most was curl up in a corner and cry. Just cry until he fell asleep. At least when he was unconscious he was safe.

The American read the note again, eyes misting up. It was just a sentence, but a sentence was all he needed.

_All Americans are fat; oh pardon me – not all of them, but you at least._

* * *

By the time the lunch bell rang, Alfred's spirits couldn't have been more down. Not only did his morning at school (and home!) start out shitty, but it appeared to carry out throughout the rest of the classes too.

In Science he had forgotten his homework at home, so the teacher naturally gave him a zero. Alfred honestly didn't care a bit until the teacher also gave him detention. For what reason, the teenager had no clue. But he did and now it was just a hop-skip-and-a-phone-call-away from getting grounded over nothing.

Then later in Art, Alfred was putting the finishing touches on his Roy Lichtenstein project when the paint had spilled all over his work. It had taken him a week just to create everything and there he went and screwed it all up with a misplaced hand! Mr. Vargas – or Signor Vargas, as he liked to be called (what was up with the foreign teachers, Al had no clue) – had told him not to worry and that he had extra time to turn it in. That was a plus, although it really felt like a minus.

And finally in German 3, Herr Beilschmidt decided to call on Alfred to answer the hardest of questions. And even with Gilbert sitting next to him and whispering the answers in undertone, he still fumbled through the words. The teacher had made a huge show of giving him low marks, and that made the American sink lower into his seat.

All in all he couldn't see how much worse the day could get.

Entering the cafeteria, Alfred quickly found his group of friends sitting at a table towards the back entrance. He walked towards them slightly happier, at least he had friends. "Hey guys," he said a moment later, waving as he sat down.

Feliciano, a bubbly Italian with a strange curl, was the first to see him. "Ve~," he exclaimed. "_Ciao,_ Alfred!"

"Hey Feli," Alfred responded, laughing at the brunette's excitement.

"Look guys, look! Alfred's here!"

Slowly, the rest of the small group of friends turned their heads to say hello – except for Gilbert, who was out buying lunch. The group included Feliciano; Ludwig, a stoic German and Gilbert's brother; Matthew, Alfred's own Canadian brother who was extremely shy and soft-spoken; Kiku, an otaku but very polite Japanese boy; Yao, Kiku's older Chinese brother who loved food; and Gilbert, an albino who claimed he was Prussian and "awesome". All together, they were a weird bunch. But Alfred liked it that way, and it seemed that the rest of them did too.

"_Konnichiwa_, Alfred-kun," Kiku greeted, bowing his head at Alfred.

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Dude," he started, "I don't see why you still do that. We're friends, remember? You can be casual with me."

"B-But –"

"Listen to Alfred, aru!" Yao interjected from across the table. "You're no longer in Japan!"

The Japanese teenager glared at his older brother. _"Hai, _I know. But I was just being polite."

The atmosphere grew thick as the two engaged in a staring contest. That was normal due to the fact Kiku didn't like Yao very much. Meanwhile, Alfred had started a conversation with Ludwig on the topic of history, something they shared a common ground with.

"Okay dude, so you know Napoleon?" The American asked while watching his friend eat, silently envying him.

Ludwig nodded a "yes" while swallowing his food.

"What do you think was his biggest flaw?"

"Are you seriously asking me this?"

"Uh, yeah dude."

"_Gott_, I don't know. If anything it was probably his try of attacking Russia."

"Really, you think so? Not the XYZ Affair?" Alfred asked.

Before Ludwig could answer, Gilbert made his appearance known by slamming his tray on the table and exclaiming, "Never fear, peasants! The King of Awesome is here! Kesesese~"

Everyone's attention turned to the albino. Even Kiku and Yao stopped glaring at each other to look. Ludwig's face turned red with embarrassment at being his brother and Matthew rolled his eyes. "That's a new one," the Canadian muttered.

Nobody seemed to hear him except for Gilbert. Smirking, he slid into a seat next to Matthew and right across from Alfred. "Why yes, Birdie," he acknowledged. "I just made it up two seconds ago. Do you like it~?"

"Do you want the truth? Or do you want the lie?"

"Truth! After all, the Awesome Me can take anything!"

"Well, not to be rude or anything, but it was kind of…lame."

"_Was?!"_ Gilbert exclaimed in offense the same time Matthew turned to Alfred. "Where's your lunch?" The blonde asked his brother.

Alfred's good mood suddenly disappeared. But he knew Mattie would notice, so he put on a fake smile. "I'm not hungry," he lied.

Matthew narrowed his eyes and studied Alfred, who shifted in his seat a little. For as long as he had known him, his younger brother had never ever been "not hungry". He was always asking when the next meal was or when he could get something to eat. This was easily not normal behavior. At all. And the Canadian wanted to know why and what was going on. He didn't like it when he was lied to.

Suddenly a loud gurgling noise erupted from the American's stomach, proving Matthew right, but Alfred pretended not to notice. Instead, he rested his head on his hands and looked his older brother. "So," he began, "you left today with Gil again."

The accusation was so blunt and unexpected, the Canadian had to blush. Gilbert snickered and slung an arm around him and answered, "_Ja_, he did."

"When? I didn't see you leave."

"I think it was when you were taking a shower. Though for once the Awesome Me can't be sure. Birdie?"

"O-_Oui_, it was when you were taking a shower, Al," Matthew confirmed.

"Why?"

"I had band this morning, remember? Gil offered me a lift."

"Oh," was all Alfred said before he started to pick at the table, eyes cast down. _You were in there for forty minutes…Gilbert came by while you were wasting water. He's already gone; _the memory of his dad's words replayed in Alfred's mind. God, how much time was he wasting just looking at a scale and mirror? How much time was he spending working out lately? Was it really so much that he was starting to estrange himself from his family? _And for what?! _Alfred thought bitterly. _Something's obviously not working. But what is it?_

And then Arthur's voice sounded again saying, _Not like you need any more calories or food…worked out more…ate less…lose weight._

Suddenly Alfred realized where he was going wrong. Of _course_! Why didn't he see it before? God, why hadn't he _tried_ it before? Surely he wasn't as stupid as Natalya claimed him to be. Fat, yes, but not stupid…

"Alfred? Hey Al, what's wrong?" Matthew's voice cut through his thoughts.

Alfred looked up. "Huh?" He asked.

"You zoned out a bit, what happened?" Gilbert clarified.

"Oh nothing," Alfred lied again, regaining his composure and giving a small chuckle. "I was just thinking."

His brother gave him an odd look, so Alfred looked about the table to see what the others were up to. But when he saw all the food out, his stomach lurched unexpectedly. Instead of seeing his friends talking, all he saw was the food. And with the food, he could only guess the number of calories and fat stored in them. And with the calories and fat, he started to feel a little nauseous. Not very much – just a small churning in his stomach – but it was enough for him to not ask for any food. _It's not like you need any more…_

Standing up abruptly, he turned to Matthew and said, "Look, I gotta go. See you at home, okay?"

His brother didn't get a chance to reply before Alfred hurriedly walked away. Away from his friends, away from the food, and away from all the calories. The farther the better, in his mind at least.

His stomach rumbled in protest, but Alfred didn't care. If starving himself for a bit was the only way he was going to get skinny, so be it. He could starve. He could do it. And no one would tell him otherwise. Heck, maybe even his dad would be proud. And it was just going to be until he got the body he wanted, it wasn't going to be forever.

_Yes, _Alfred thought, _I'll show them. I'll show Natalya, Dad, Mattie, Papa, Gilbert, all of them. I'll show them I'm not going to be fat anymore._

The American was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't even notice he had walked right into the restroom. When he did finally notice, he quickly looked around to make sure no one was in there. Thankfully no one was, so he stood in front of the mirror and looked at himself. Alfred twisted this way and that, sucking in his gut so he could at least _seem _skinny.

The teenager was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn't notice the door open and another student walk in until the other exclaimed, "What are you _doing_, Jones?"

* * *

_**Translations:**_

_Sınıf Merhaba – _Hello class **(Turkish)**

_Merhaba öğretmenim – _Hello teacher **(Turkish)**

_matmazel – _Mademoiselle **(Turkish)**

_Ciao – _Hello **(Italian)**

_Konnichiwa _– Hello **(Japanese)**

_Hai _– Yes **(Japanese)**

_Gott - _God **(German)**

_Was _– What **(German)**

_Ja – _Yes **(German)**

_Oui _– Yes **(French)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well hello dear readers! For those of you in the USA, did you have a nice Thanksgiving? And for those that aren't in the States, did you have a nice Thursday?**

**This chapter was hard to write for some strange reason. I've re-written it too many times to count and I'm still not very happy with it O.e It's mainly a filler chapter too.**

**And you see Ancient Egypt~**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

"You got detention, you ditched school, and you lied to Francis. Bloody hell, what am I going to do with you, Alfred?" Arthur asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Well," Alfred began only to be rudely interrupted by an angry Brit.

"Can't there be just one day – _one_ _day_, Alfred, that's all I ask – where you behave? Where you don't screw something up? Where I actually feel good and proud about adopting you? Not ashamed of it? Is that too much to ask for?"

"N-"

"Apparently it is!" Arthur exclaimed, his voice nearly at a yelling pitch. Face now red, he turned away from his son and crossed his arms. Staring out the window, he lowered his voice into a deadly whisper. "Go," he demanded. "Just get out of my sight, Alfred. And pray to God I don't see your fat, disgusting face until I've fully calmed down."

Alfred nodded and got up to go to his bedroom. Tears pricked his eyes, but he wouldn't cry. His throat felt tight, and it was hard to swallow. His dad's words hurt horribly, no matter how many times he said them, but they were true. Why did he have to be such a screw up? Couldn't he do anything right?

His mind replayed the day's events since lunch. Someone had seen him in the bathroom. That someone had turned out to be Ivan Braginsky.

* * *

*_FLASHBACK__*_

"What are you _doing, _Jones?"

Alfred jumped and turned around. And there he saw the last person he had wanted to see: Ivan Braginsky, world's most feared teenager to all but Alfred, Yao, and Natalya. He was Russian, and had this child-like sadistic side to him. Although there were rumors that he had a sweet side of him - courtesy of Yao, who had dated him two years ago – but Alfred didn't believe them. That's all they were. _Rumors. _All he'd ever encountered with Ivan was cold hostility or challenges.

"What's it to you, Braginsky?" Alfred sneered, trying to cover up his shock and embarrassment.

Ivan shrugged. "Nothing," he replied honestly.

"Then why ask?"

"Why not?"

Cue the infuriating smile the Russian constantly wore. Behind that smile, the American could never tell what the other was thinking. Sometimes it drove him nuts, other times he preferred to not know. This was one of those times where it drove him nuts. Already Natalya had seen how fat Alfred was; and since she hung out with Ivan (worshipped him, more like it), what was to say if she hadn't already told the Russian of her findings? Or – Heaven forbid – what if Ivan had already noticed? Alfred didn't know why, but the thought bothered him.

All of a sudden the bathroom seemed to close in on him. He started to hyperventilate and sweat. _Oh my god, _he thought; _if he sees how fat I am…_

"Are you alright?" Ivan asked, tilting his head and dropping the smile. Judging by his tone, it sounded as if he was genuinely worried.

Alfred clenched his fists and shook his head, laughing at himself in his mind. _Why would Ivan be worried? _He mused bitterly._ He's been nothing but a dick to me since we've known each other._

"Alfred?" Ivan repeated, taking a step closer. "Are you okay? You seem upset."

_So your biggest rival is trying to reach out to you now? Oh boy, are you __**pathetic**__, _A voice rang in the American's mind cruelly. _That's exactly what you are. Fat, pathetic, selfish, the list could go on. You're anything but a hero, Alfred. Why, you're stupid enough to get caught. Tisk tisk Mr. Jones, I thought you were better than that. Clearly not, it seems. Oh what's this? Shutting your eyes and trying not to cry? Ha! LOSER! You big, fat, good-for-nothing __**loser**__._

"Alfred?"

Alfred opened his eyes abruptly and met Ivan's own violet ones. Quickly, he broke eye contact and blinked away the forming tears. Taking a deep breath, he lied again, "I-I'm fine. Stop worrying about me, jerk."

Then he walked past the taller teenager with his head down towards the door. Even after he closed it behind him, he could still feel Ivan watching him.

*_END FLASHBACK__*_

* * *

Collapsing onto his bed, Alfred stared up at the white ceiling. He felt hungry, and he wanted to eat something. He hadn't eaten anything all day, opting to drink water to fill himself up, but now the hunger pangs started to come again. And they came fast and furious, each one striking fiercely in his stomach.

Alfred turned onto his side and curled into himself. He would not – could not – go down to the kitchen and grab some food. His pissed off dad was there; and besides, wasn't this what starving was all about? Riding out the hunger pains in order to be slim?

The teenager closed his eyes and forced himself to replay the rest of the day as a distraction.

* * *

*_FLASHBACK__*_

Alfred looked back at the building and allowed a bittersweet smile to show. He was doing it; he was ditching school. And boy did he feel relieved. Now he wouldn't have to face Ivan again when they had History together. That'll save him a bunch of teasing, of that he was quite sure. And he didn't need to worry about Matthew; his brother had Gilbert to drive him home.

Pressing the crosswalk button, Alfred allowed himself to relax. He had three and a half hours to do whatever he wanted to do, and boy was he going to use it. Maybe he could take the bus downtown by the harbor and run for a bit? He'd be back in time for his parents not to ask where he'd been and he'd get some good exercise too. Yes, that sounded like a good plan. But first he needed some water to hydrate.

The crosswalk sign switched from red to white and Alfred jogged across the intersection. He didn't stop jogging until he reached the nearest 7-11.

Opening up the door, he made a straight beeline for the drink section. Sodas, Power Drinks, Energy Drinks, and water were all held in the refrigerated rows. The blonde skimmed over the Gatorades and grabbed a large water bottle before taking it back to the cash register and getting out his wallet. As he pulled out a five dollar bill, the employee asked, "Aren't you supposed to be at school?"

Alfred looked up and made eye contact with a black-haired woman that had light brown eyes. "Um," he started. "Yeah, I guess."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Then what are you doing here?"

"Are you from somewhere? 'Cause you have an accent," the American remarked, switching the topic.

"I am from Egypt," the employee said, waving a hand off-handedly. "Now tell me, why are you ditching school?"

"You're not gonna let me go on this one, are you?"

"No."

"If I told you, would you let me buy my drink and go?"

"Perhaps."

Alfred sighed and said, "Usually nobody but cops and parents care."

"Oh so you've done this before?" The Egyptian quirked an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

"No," Alfred quickly read her name tag, "Akila, I haven't. Just generalizing things, ya know? Now may I please just pay?"

"I am a parent too; my own son is in high school," Akila told him. "If I found out that he missed, I'd make sure to teach him a lesson! Education is important, it helps you in life."

The American was starting to get annoyed and slightly uncomfortable. Why couldn't he just leave with his stupid water bottle? Now the cashier was rambling on to him school and life and work and dear god he just wanted to _leave_! He just wanted to _run_! This pointless conversation was wasting time!

"Look, Miss," Alfred interrupted a minute later, setting his water bottle on the counter. "It was nice talking to you and all that, but I'm gonna go now. See you."

As he walked out, he heard a frantic; "Wait!" come from the counter. Turning back around, he asked, "Yes?"

Akila huffed and dusted imaginary dirt off her uniform before saying haughtily, "Buy your water bottle. Business is slow here today, and I don't want you to dehydrate yourself."

Smirking, Alfred did just that and bid the Egyptian good-bye as he walked out the door with some water.

As soon as he was outside again, he ran to the bus stop and jogged in place until the vehicle showed up fifteen minutes later. The bus driver gave him a strange look as he paid but didn't say anything, and the American went and sat down on an empty seat towards the back. It was a twenty minute ride to downtown, give or take a few moments, so Alfred busied himself by looking out the window and thinking of ways to lose calories.

Twenty minutes later, the bus dropped him off and right away he started to run. Alfred jogged until he reached the harbor, then he started to run faster. He ran and ran till his legs couldn't take anymore and he had to stop. Sitting on a bench, he realized that it felt…good. It felt good to know that he was accomplishing something other than eating. He felt as though he was winning a competition.

"Ha ha!" Alfred laughed, throwing his hands up in the sky. People gave him weird looks as they passed, but for once the blonde didn't care. So what if they thought he was diving off the deep end? They didn't know shit about him. "Look Dad, are you proud?" He asked loud enough for only himself to hear. "I'm doing it. I'm losing weight. I won't be fat anymore. Maybe now you won't be ashamed of me.

"You know what? Fuck you. I'm not doing this for _you_," Alfred said, visualizing his father's face in front of him. "I'm doing this for _me._ I'm doing this so _I _won't be ashamed of me anymore. How does that feel, you stupid Brit? How does it feel to know that you can't completely control me and my pathetic life?"

For the rest of the time he had left, Alfred just ran. He stopped only when he really needed to, or when he got back on the bus and sat down. But by the time he made it home (roughly the usual time he came home from school) he was drenched in sweat.

This did not go unnoticed by Arthur, who glared and ordered him to go take a shower. When Alfred was done, the British man called him into the kitchen and began a Spanish Inquisition on his day; much to the younger's displeasure. That soon led to harsh words and getting grounded, which then led to Alfred being confined in his room.

All in all, it had been a crappy day despite the runs.

*_END FLASHBACK__*_

* * *

A gurgling sound erupted from his stomach, and Alfred quietly moaned while opening his eyes. He could tough this out. It was only temporary pain anyway. Food sounded nice, but that's all it did. Sound nice. It _wasn't_ nice, and Alfred knew it. If there was an enemy, it would be food.

He smiled to himself, picturing the comic it would make.

THE AMAZING HERO ALFRED VERSUS THE EVIL VILLAIN FOOD! That would be title. And inside would be this awesome, super hot superhero that had _abs _and wasn't _fat_ named Alfred F. Jones. Cowlick, glasses, and everything else. Heck, maybe even his bomber jacket would be included too.

Humming to himself, the American continued to draw it in his mind's eye.

The superhero would save lives, and everybody – and Alfred meant everybody_, _boys _and_ girls – would fall for him. They would want to dance with him at parties, and try to kiss him under the mistletoe, and purposely get into desperate trouble just to be rescued. He would be popular. He would be respected.

He would be perfect.

Of course, the back-story between Alfred and Food would be tragic like all back-stories. Food would be best friends with Al one day, and then betray him the next. Then there would be these epic duels where Alfred would _so _win and that would have everyone cheer for him with renewed fervor. And the mayor would give him the key to the city for the millionth time. But Alfred didn't care because, hey, he was just doing his job.

_But you have to get skinny first~_ the cruel voice sang.

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could just fall asleep. True, it was only five in the afternoon, but it felt so much later than that. And the blonde was tired, so very tired. His body was hungry and exhausted from all the running too. All he wanted to do now was sleep…

* * *

Matthew knocked quietly on his brother's door. When there wasn't an answer, he opened it up and looked inside. "Hey Alfred," he said softly, going into the room. "Dinner's rea – oh." He stopped talking when he saw Alfred curled up in his bed, fast asleep. The Canadian checked the clock; it was only 7.

Smiling softly, Matthew watched his younger brother sleep for a minute or two, observing how peaceful he looked. Then he quietly left and shut the door behind him. It seemed as though he would have to set the table for three now.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: IT'S SNOWING PEOPLE! IT'S SNOWING WHERE I LIVE! *Flips out and squeals* I'M SO EXCITED! SCHOOL GOT PUSHED BACK!**

**Sorry for not updating sooner, I was writing for a Young Author Competition. But I'm back now so yay! Thank you people so much for the reviews and favorites and follows, it means a lot :)**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Alfred woke up the next morning sore. His legs ached from running yesterday and briefly he wondered if he could walk. Then he shook his head at his silly thought and told himself that staying in bed all day wouldn't burn calories. So he got out of bed and went to the bathroom to get ready. But not before checking the scale, which showed that he had lost a pound. The American smiled. Although he was still fat, he was doing _something_ right and losing weight. _This is good, _he thought, stripping and turning on the water. _But I still need to lose more._

This time he showered as quickly as he could and walked out of the bathroom twenty minutes later. Instead of heading downstairs for some breakfast, Alfred headed toward his room. His stomach was killing him because he hadn't eaten in a day, but he ignored it. The American didn't trust himself enough to be surrounded by food. He felt that if he did go downstairs he'd either get into a fight with his parents or binge. And to be quite frank, neither sounded appealing at the moment.

Shutting the door behind him, Alfred walked over to his backpack and pulled out his homework. He decided to do only the classes he was there for and not the others. Arthur would have a fit, exclaiming that he could've just asked Mattie what to do, but Alfred no longer cared. Homework was stupid and useless and his dad was just full of shit.

About halfway through his work, the bedroom door opened. Alfred glanced up, saw it was his brother, and looked back down on his paper. Matthew entered the room and sat on Alfred's bed quietly. It was quiet for another two minutes before the older one softly greeted, "Good morning, Alfred."

Alfred grunted in response, not bothering to look up.

"So you left school early, eh?"

Another grunt.

"What did you do?"

This time Alfred did look up and sarcastically replied, "I hooked up with a prostitute."

Matthew's eyes grew wide and it was clear that he missed the cynicism. "Al," he gasped, "you shouldn't have! Dad will have your –"

"Chill dude," the American said, dropping the sarcasm and rolling his eyes. "I didn't actually have sex."

"O-Oh…Then what _did _you do?"

"I just went out for a run."

"That's it?"

Alfred nodded. He hoped the answer seemed so ridiculous that Matthew wouldn't buy it. That way the truth, though told, was still a "secret" and no one else but his dad would know. However there was still a feeling of dread that his brother _would_ buy it and try to stop his weight loss plan. So the American watched his brother anxiously to see his reaction.

But all Matthew did was look at him funnily, as if he didn't believe what he was hearing. The Canadian opened and closed his mouth trying to find what to say. Eventually he just remarked, "That…That doesn't seem like something a person would ditch school for."

"And hooking up with a whore does?" Alfred challenged.

"ALFRED! Don't say that! That's _mean _and _offensive!_"

"Well does it?"

"N-No…maybe…I don't know! It depends on the person!"

"Would _you_ do it~?" The younger brother asked his older brother, waggling his eyebrows.

The older brother blushed a deep red and slapped his laughing brother upside the head. "No!" He exclaimed. "Now stop acting so perverted and get your butt downstairs!"

Alfred quit laughing suddenly and a feeling of dread spread through him. Holding back a gulp, he asked, "Why should I go downstairs?"

"Papa and Dad want to see you," Matthew answered, getting up and heading for the door. "They want to talk to you."

_Oh shit, _Alfred thought, getting up as well and following the Canadian down. When he entered the kitchen a moment later, he saw both his parents sitting side by side and discussing something. Upon seeing him, they quickly shut up and motioned him to sit across from them. Alfred did and Francis got up to get something from the counter.

"Good morning, Alfred," Arthur said.

_He seems to be in a good mood, _Alfred observed. "Mornin' Dad, Papa," He replied somewhat nervously. Francis turned around and nodded to acknowledge him before going back to doing whatever he was doing.

"Now Alfred, I want you to be one hundred percent honest with us, alright?" The Brit told his son.

Shifting in his seat, the teenager agreed warily, "Okay…"

"Now this is of extreme importance, so you can't go messing it up like always."

"Alright…"

"Are you hungry?"

The question hit Alfred like a ton of bricks. Honestly he had expected something more crucial than that. Was he hungry? Yes. Would he admit that to anyone? No. Not a chance. So he shook his head and lied, "No."

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Francis whipped around just then and chimed in, "You haven't eaten in a day, Alfred. This is hardly normal behavior for you."

"So?"

"So why don't you have some breakfast?" His British dad offered casually. But his green eyes were aflame with a hidden challenge that only Alfred saw.

Said teen suppressed a shudder and declined. "No thank you. I brushed my teeth already."

The flame appeared to get brighter from rage and Alfred shrank back. Francis seemed to notice for he stepped forward and put a hand on his husband's shoulder, causing the rage to die down a bit. Arthur grumbled and looked away, but didn't shake off the touch, and Alfred decided it was time he left before something bad happened. He didn't even bother to say anything as he left the kitchen. It wasn't as if he needed to anyway, his parents were starting to fight with each other again and had completely forgotten about him.

Alfred's legs protested as he climbed the stairs to get to his bedroom. Opening the door, he was shocked to see Matthew rummaging through his things. He hadn't noticed his brother leave the kitchen. "Matthew!" Alfred nearly yelled, shocking his older brother. "What are you doing?!"

Matthew turned around to look at him and gave a sheepish grin. "H-Hi Al," he said, "I was just looking for some socks. I-I ran out…"

The American stomped towards his now disheveled backpack and held it up for the Canadian to see. "Why the hell would any socks be in here?" He snarled.

"U-Um…"

"They'd be in the drawer, stupid! So why the fuck are you ransacking my room?"

"W-Well –"

"You know what? Save it. I don't wanna hear it," Alfred griped, zipping up his open backpack. To hell if it was messy inside. He didn't give a damn anymore.

Matthew watched hopelessly from where he was sitting on the floor, his violet-blue eyes wide. "Al-Alfred," he began.

"_I said save it!" _Alfred yelled before storming downstairs.

It appeared he wasn't the only one who was yelling because from the foyer he could hear Arthur and Francis fighting too. "Well what the bloody hell did you want me to do different?!" Arthur exclaimed.

"Maybe if you had not lost your temper –" Francis was cut off.

"Lose my temper? Lose. My. Temper! That was _not _losing my temper, frog!"

"Then explain what it was because Alfred seemed –"

"TO HELL WITH WHAT ALFRED SEEMED LIKE!" Arthur roared, and from where Alfred was putting on his shoes he could tell his dad had snapped. The teenager stopped to bitterly listen to what else his parent had to say. He was not disappointed. "TO HELL WITH ALL OF THIS! I TRIED TO TEACH THAT BRAT, BUT HE WON'T LISTEN TO ME! I DON'T CARE IF HE HAS ONLY TWO MORE YEARS UNTIL COLLEGE, I CAN'T STAND HIM!"

There was a sound of china crashing and the Frenchman cursed before exclaiming, "Arthur! He could be listening! Shut u –"

"_Don't. Tell. Me. To. Shut. Up! _ And I'm glad if he is listening because I wish he was more like Matthew! At least then he wouldn't be so–"

Alfred walked towards the kitchen and stopped at the doorway. There he saw his dad's red face and a teacup smashed on the floor. His papa had his fists clenched, teeth grit and had fury in his eyes. The two were looking at each other and it was clear to Alfred that neither noticed him, so he exclaimed really loudly, "Tell that to my face, you bastard!"

Arthur broke eye contact to gape at his adoptive son, so did Francis. Never ever had he been called that by his children to the face. Or even at all.

Alfred sneered at the Brit with hatred, although inside he felt like he was dying from all the hurt. "That's what I thought," he said before giving the middle finger and pronouncing, "So fuck you too, prick."

Then he walked back to the foyer, grabbed his bomber jacket, and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

"Hey Gilbert," Alfred started, watching his friend eat his lunch. "Can I ask you something?"

"Ja, sure, what is it?" Gilbert replied back idly.

"Can I stay at your house tonight?"

The albino looked at him weirdly while chewing slowly. After he swallowed he asked carefully, "Why?"

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Well I kinda sorta got into a fight with my da – with _Arthur _and I don't wanna go back home."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow, noticing the first name change. Alfred cringed and looked downwards, feeling ashamed. _He probably will say no, _he thought glumly. _He probably doesn't want a fatass taking up space. I know if I were him I wouldn't want me to intrude either. What if he already has plans? What if I'm inconveniencing him?_

"Does Birdie know?" The Prussian finally asked.

"No," Alfred admitted. He hadn't seen his brother since he left the house, and he wanted to keep it that way. Some might call it avoiding his problems, but he called it calming down.

Yet lunch was halfway through and there still had been no sign of him. Gilbert had wondered to the others about it, but no one knew where the Canadian was. Feliciano, who had art with him first period, said that he had seen him and that he looked upset. Yao said that he'd seen him in the halls. However Ludwig had stated that Matthew hadn't shown up to third period at all. _He ditched, _Alfred had realized. _But why?_

Gilbert's voice brought him back to the present. "So what are you going to tell him?" He inquired.

"Mattie?" Alfred asked for clarification.

"Yes. _Und_ your parents _auch_."

"I'll text Mattie where I am. I won't tell my parents though."

Instead of asking for more details, Gilbert simply nodded in understanding. "Okay," he said. "I'll tell _Opa_ you're staying over."

Alfred looked up, not daring to breathe. "Really?"

"Didn't the Awesome Me already say yes?"

"Thanks so much, Gilbert."

"_Mach dir keine Sorgen, es ist okay," _The albino said before yelling down the table, "Hey West!"

Ludwig looked up from where he was talking to Feliciano on the other end. When Gilbert motioned for him to come over, the blonde said something to Feli – who pouted before letting him go – and got up. Walking over to his brother and Alfred, Ludwig asked tiredly, "What is it?"

"Oh stop being such a bore, _Luddy_," Gilbert teased, using the nickname a certain Italian gave the blonde. This made Ludwig blush and the albino laughed before talking to him in rapid German. It made Alfred's head spin, but he didn't complain.

Two minutes later, Ludwig nodded and turned to Alfred. "I hope you don't mind," he started, "but Feliciano is going to be there too."

Alfred shook his head. "No dude, its fine. I kinda barged in. Sorry."

"Hey!" Gilbert interjected. "Didn't I tell you not to worry? Its fine, everyone has fallouts with their parents. God knows I have. Plus I need someone to help distract me from the noises that might be going on in Ludwig's room. Kesesese~"

Ludwig narrowed his eyes and smacked his brother upside the head, although he was blushing. The gesture looked so much like what Mattie did to him earlier that Alfred felt something constrict in his chest. He smiled anyway, just to appear in a good mood when he really wasn't.

Eventually Ludwig returned back to his seat, and by the way Feliciano was reacting, he was telling his friend about Alfred's stay. Gilbert watched them with amusement whilst eating chips for a moment before turning to Alfred. "Since," he said, "you're running away from your unawesome home to my awesome home, I have one order to give to you."

"Okay, dude. What is it?" Alfred asked.

Gilbert smiled wickedly and, without breaking eye contact, pulled out an apple to give to the blonde. "Eat this," was all he said.

Alfred inwardly shrunk back. An apple was food and food was the enemy. He couldn't eat that. He just couldn't. But he was so hungry and his stomach was killing him and it was an _apple._ It was a fruit. Fruits were supposed to be good for you, right? He glanced down at the red fruit and then up at the albino's shockingly white face a few times. Eat it? Don't eat it?

The American was surprised when he took the apple and bit into it that the voice didn't start nagging. He still felt disgusted though and finished it off as quickly as possible, throwing it away in the trash when he was done. The food sat in his stomach uncomfortably and Alfred found he wanted to run it off.

Gilbert just smiled at him, said "Good.", and started to talk with Yao about something, leaving Alfred to deal with the weird feeling inside.

* * *

The blonde took his seat (which was in the back) in History class and waited for class to start. He sat alone, having no friends in the class, and let his eyes wander. There were groups of friends talking with each other; there were students filling out last minute homework; and then there was Ivan Braginsky, who took his seat next to Alfred's. The American groaned inaudibly. He didn't want to be teased or picked on just yet.

But all Ivan did was look at him for a second or two before getting something from his binder. Out of the corner of his eye, the blue eyed teen saw him write something on a piece of paper and rip it out. Then the next thing he knew, a note was passed to him.

He cringed as he opened it up, remembering Natalya's note, and risked a glance at the Russian. Said Russian wasn't paying any attention to him though, and was getting out his homework. So Alfred thought it was somewhat safe to read.

_Hi ^J^_

That was all it said.

Alfred got out a pencil and wrote back, _Uh, hi?_

Then he tossed it to Ivan before busying himself with paying attention to the teacher, who was lecturing someone over something. Vaguely, he felt something hit him in the arm a minute later and went to go pick up the note.

_How are you?_

Briskly, the American wrote back, _I'm fine, ruskie. Leave me alone. _Then he flung the note to Ivan just as the bell rang.

Half of the class went by before Alfred received another message.

_Is something bothering you? _

Alfred ignored the question.

A minute later: _You seem on edge._

The American scowled. Ivan had no business knowing what he was doing or feeling. _Yes, _he wrote, _there is something bothering me. __You__. Leave me the fuck alone already!_

He hit Ivan in the face when he threw the wadded up paper. He didn't feel bad. In return the Russian got the message and didn't interact with him for the rest of the period.

* * *

Lockers slammed. People left. It was the end of school for the day.

Alfred waited outside Gilbert's locker and jogged in place. It was the best he could do given the circumstances, and if anyone asked why he'd tell them that he was anxious. A lie, but then again didn't he lie now? Wasn't he a big, fat liar?

Eventually Gilbert came into view and Alfred stopped jogging to wave him over. The Prussian waved back and ran the rest of the way. "So," he said when he reached his locker, "are you ready for an awesome sleepover?"

"Um –" Alfred began only to have Gilbert interrupt.

"Kesesese~ it's going to be so much fun! We'll prank Ludwig and Feli and then watch their unawesome – or totally awesome, depending on how things go – reactions. Are you prepared to run? _Mein Bruder _tends to overact. You know, sometimes he's too serious for his own good. That's why Feliciano balances him out."

"Uh yeah, sure dude. Sounds awesome. Hey, is your granddad okay with this?"

"Opa? Pfft he's fine, don't worry about him," Gilbert remarked waving a hand in dismissal. "If he questions anything, I'll just pull out The Card."

Alfred looked at his friend strangely. "The Card?"

"Ja. The Card."

"What's The Card?"

"I'll tell him that if Ludwig can have Feli over, I can have one of my friends over too. He won't argue over that! Kesesese~. Oh, before the Awesome Me forgets, do you have your night gear?"

Alfred shifted his feet nervously. "Um, no...I left the house right after…"

Gilbert shrugged and started to put things in his locker. "Its fine," he said, "we'll just go to the store to get a toothbrush and some toothpaste for you. No problem."

"What about night clothes?"

The albino closed his locker and leaned against it, sizing up the blonde. "Hmm, you might fit into Ludwig's clothes. You two are about the same size. We'll have to ask him first though."

_No, _the American thought while nodding his head. _We're not. He's skinner than I am. No way would he want me in his clothes._

"So, you ready to go?" Gilbert asked, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"Yeah, man," Alfred replied, shifting his weight.

"Cool. Race you to car on three?"

"You're going down."

"_Eins_–"

"Two –"

"_Drei_!"

Together they raced to the parking lot, bumping into people along the way. Some cussed them out, others ignored them. The race ended up being a tie, which was good enough for both of them. Gilbert was laughing, out of breath, and Alfred was smiling from the run. They got into the car and waited for Ludwig and Feliciano to show up by listening to German rock music. It was the most fun Alfred had in ages, and he forgot about his weight problem for a bit.

However, it all came crashing down when he saw a certain person drive into the parking lot and park near them.

* * *

_**Translations:**_

_Und – _And **(German)**

_Auch – _Too **(German)**

_Opa _- Granddad **(German)**

_Mach dir keine Sorgen, es ist okay_ – Don't worry, it's okay. **(German)**

_Mein Bruder_ - My brother **(German)**

_Eins_ – One **(German)**

_Drei – _Three **(German)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I has returned! Ignore that horribly incorrect grammar usage, by the way. But it's true. I'M BACK! Did you miss me~? Here's another chapter for you awesome people ^_^ It's mainly a filler, but here you go.**

**So sorry for not updating this past week, but the teachers were being butts and assigning all kinds of crap before the winter break. *bangs head against the desk repeatedly* TO. MUCH. WORK. AND. STUDYING. But whatever, I coped with it. Don't want my grades to suffer~! However, this will NOT be a dead fic. I won't ever quit this story; just want you all to know that.**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

"Oh my god," the American breathed, looking out the windshield. His albino friend stopped singing to look too, and his red eyes grew wide.

Getting out of a car in front of them (which Alfred recognized as his papa's) was Matthew. His face held a pained expression and his hair was in slight disarray. It looked as if he had just been in a fight with someone – not physical, but verbal – because overall the teen looked drained. Tired. Done.

Alfred could sympathize; he often felt that way. But right now he didn't feel sorry for Matthew, because right now Matthew was no longer his brother. He was his _rival._ His _enemy. _And, in Alfred's mind, opponents didn't deserve sympathy. Not even his adoptive brother deserved it because if it hadn't been for his perfection, Arthur would've been proud and happy about Alfred. If it hadn't been for _him, _Arthur would've loved Alfred. If it hadn't been for _him, _Arthur would've not nagged to Alfred about all his imperfections and how fat he was and how Matthew was always better and how the American should be more like the Canadian.

"Look," Arthur had once remarked to a seven-year-old Alfred as he was painting one day, "see how Matthew paints? The strokes are even and inside the lines. Not jagged and outside the lines like yours. Try to copy Matthew."

Or when the two brothers were in the fifth grade; Matthew sat first chair for the cello in his orchestra and Alfred was in second chair for the trumpet section in his band. But the American had _still_ gotten scolded about it. "Matthew is in first chair, Alfred," the Brit had said, exasperatingly. "Why can't you be in first chair too? Can you not play correctly? Is it too much for you and your peanut-sized brain? Perhaps Matthew could give you pointers so you can do better."

"But Dad, second chair is good too, right?" Alfred had asked hopefully.

His dad had shaken his head and the message was clear: _No, it's not._

"But the trumpet and the cello are two separate instruments, Dad. That's like comparing an apple to an orange: it's not fair. Can you at least be proud of me? I worked hard to get second chair."

The plea had fallen on deaf ears. Arthur was already engrossed in grading papers and hadn't heard his son at all. Nor had he seen how tears had welled up in Alfred's blue eyes; but that was probably for the better. He would've probably told the American to grow up and stop crying and stop being weak.

Then again in seventh grade, Alfred had finally _finally _gotten Straight A's on his report card. When he'd shown his parents, his papa was so proud of him that he took him – and _only_ him - out for ice cream. But his dad wasn't proud. His dad had read it, frowned, and commented, "What's this? Two – wait, no _three_ – A Minuses? Alfred, I am appalled. I expected better from you. Matthew doesn't even have _one_ A Minus. How is it that you have _three?_"

Or there was the time when the American had scored the winning touchdown in American Football for his team only a year later. Instead of congratulating him, Arthur had griped about how American Football was a ruffian sport, and how Ice Hockey – which Matthew played – wasn't and that Alfred should play that instead.

_Stupid, stupid Matthew, _Alfred thought, continuing to look out the windshield and clenching his fists. _Why does he have to be so goddamn perfect and I don't? Why? Papa and Dad love him more than me because of it. I bet if _I_ died they wouldn't care, but if _Matthew _died they would be a mess. Oh god why? What does he have that I don't?_

A new voice entered his mind just then. It hissed, _For starters, he's skinny. He's not a fat pig like you are. He's not selfish like you; he's not ugly like you; he doesn't eat as much as you. Overall, he's more desirable. Nice, lean body and wavy hair. His eyes are unusual while yours are a cliché blue. He isn't disgusting. He doesn't eat ten thousand burgers every time he goes to McDonald's. He's not __**fat**__…_

"So," Gilbert asked, interrupting Alfred's inner turmoil, "what are you going to say to Birdie?"

"Matthew? I don't know," Alfred admitted. He watched his brother walk over to Gilbert's car, somewhat angrily.

"Well you have to say something to him."

"No I don't. He probably just wants to speak with you. Why talk to me when he has you?"

The albino rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. "I'm just going to go on a limb here, but the Awesome Me is getting the vibe that you two are not on good terms right now."

The blonde tore his gaze away and looked at his friend. "Well you're right," he verified curtly. "We aren't."

"So what are you going to say to him?"

"Nothing. I'm going to say absolutely nothing to him."

A few seconds passed in uncomfortable silence until Matthew tapped Gilbert's window. The Prussian turned off the music, rolled down the window, and smiled easily. "Hey Birdie," he greeted. "I missed your awesome presence at lunch. Where were you?"

Vaguely, Alfred wondered if _he_ had missed lunch, would Gilbert ask where he was next time they saw each other? _No, no he wouldn't, _the troubled teen concluded. _He wouldn't even care._

Matthew sighed and replied quietly, "I- I had somewhere to be. Look, can I speak to Alfred?"

Gilbert glanced nervously at the mentioned person, who was looking stubbornly out the windshield. "Ja, about that...he's kind of not in the mood right now…."

"I don't care; I need to speak to him."

That comment made Alfred turn his head to look at his newfound rival. It was out of character for the quiet Canadian to speak so forcefully, but when he did it was because of something serious. "What do you want?" Alfred snapped. It came out a little harder than he meant to, but he didn't feel bad.

Matthew flinched back as if he'd been burned. "Out-Outside," he stuttered. "I-I want to talk to you alone a-and in private."

"How long will this take?"

"A-A minute…I swear."

The American grumbled but got out of the car anyway. Together, the brothers walked over to Francis's car with Matthew leading the way. When they reached it, the Canadian held out the passenger door and motioned for the American to go inside. Alfred reluctantly did and shut the door behind him, and a second later Matthew did the same. Sitting there in the quiet would've been okay had it been not so damn awkward. Alfred soon got sick of it and grumpily asked, "Okay dude, what the hell did you bring me here for?"

Mathew ran a shaky hand through his hair, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I know," he began, turning to his body to face his brother, "that you are angry and hurt from this morning. I get that. But can you please push that aside for a minute?"

"Ha! No."

"Al…"

"_Don't _call me 'Al' anymore! I don't like it!"

Matthew sighed.

Alfred crossed his arms defiantly, glaring.

"I want to apologize for ransacking your room," the Canadian said slowly after a moment.

The American snorted and shook his head. "Why do you even bother?"

"Because I'm your brother and it's the right thing to do."

_Perfect Matthew. Always doing the right things; never getting in trouble; always being perfect. Why can't you be more like him? _A voice sneered in Alfred's mind.

Biting his lip in agitation, the American questioned, "Why were you ransacking my room? It's _my _room, not yours. It's _mine. _You had no right to go in there and mess it all up."

The Canadian pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "I get that and I'm sorry, Alfred. Really, I am. But –"

"'But' what? Are you making excuses now?"

"N-No."

"Uh yeah, you are. Don't deny it. Maybe –"

"Maybe if you stopped interrupting me I could tell you!" Matthew screeched. His eyes held flames in them and Alfred shrunk back. He knew that when Mattie was pissed, he was not something to mess with. "Maybe if you got off your high horse you could hear what I'm telling you_! Alors ferme ta gueule déjà et attention, s'il vous plaît!_"

Wide eyed, the younger brother stared at his older brother and didn't even dare to breathe. Meanwhile, the older brother closed his eyes and counted to ten to regain composure. Once it was regained he opened his eyes and said, "_Merci._"

Alfred nodded dumbly back.

"Now what I'm trying to tell you is that not only am I sorry, but Dad is too." Matthew held up a hand when Alfred opened his mouth to say something. "_Non, _Alfred, no speaking just yet. What he said was wrong, and there's no excuse for it. He does regret it; believe me, he does. And he wishes for you to come home so you two could talk it out. That's it. If you have something to say, say it now."

Acting as nonchalantly as possible given the circumstances, Alfred asked, "Did Arthur really say this, or was it all you?"

"_Dad_," corrected the Canadian, "did say this."

"And how did he feel when you came back home and ditched school?"

"That is so off-topic, Alfred."

"No it's not. C'mon, tell me."

"Well he was…shocked, I guess."

"Did he rip into you?"

"No, why would he?"

_Yes, _a voice inside Alfred agreed. _Why would he when it's Matthew? Why would he when it's Mr. Perfect? When it's the favored child?_

Suddenly, the American punched the dashboard – shocking his brother – so hard it hurt. He cursed himself for his stupidity and kicked open the door, hastily getting out. He felt sick to his stomach and hurt. Of course, how could he have not seen this coming? Laughing bitterly, he wondered why he even cared what his parents thought anymore. It wasn't as if they paid attention to him except to criticize and point out flaws. Heck, they wouldn't even apologize _in person_ to him. They didn't love him. No one did. No one would ever want to. Why would they when they saw this fat, ugly, selfish monster?

"Alfred!" Matthew called, getting out too. "What was that for?"

"That?" Alfred asked rhetorically. "That was for Arthur and his sorry-ass apologies."

"What…? But he –"

"Oh just shut it. Here, you wanna message to take back home? 'Cause I have one especially for the stupid Redcoat:

"Dear Arthur Kirkland-Bonnefoy,  
Go fuck yourself.  
Sincerely,  
Alfred F. Jones."

Matthew put a hand to his mouth and his violet-blue eyes grew ten times the normal size. "A-A-Al…"

"I told you to stop calling me that!" Alfred's voice rose.

"B-But –"

"Oh what now? You want another message? I've got loads; I've got tons I want to say to him. Here's another message:

"Dear Arthur Kirkland-Bonnefoy,  
That was the most _pathetic_ attempt at apologizing _ever_. Congrats, you've just won first place in the Asshole Competition.  
Sincerely,  
Alfred F. Jones."

"Stop it, Alfred! People are looking; you're embarrassing yourself," Matthew cried.

It was true; students walking by were giving him strange looks. Some of them stopped their conversations just to listen to him, only to start whispering after they heard. Alfred could care less at that point. He honestly, truly could. He was fed up and tired and just ran out of fucks to give. So he waved his arms around, gesturing to the school and its surroundings. "Haven't I already?" He shouted. "Haven't I already embarrassed myself enough? I've sunk so low, who gives two shits if I sink any lower? NO ONE! NO ONE WILL, MATTHEW!"

A car door slammed, and there was the sound of footsteps hitting the pavement in a run. All of a sudden, someone grabbed him around the waist and pulled him away from his brother. Alfred thrashed about, trying to get free, and elbowed his captor in the stomach. Hard. "_Fick!" _Someone cursed, immediately letting go.

However, someone else grabbed him again and dragged him farther away before he could escape. "Shhh," the person soothed as Alfred tried to get away. "Shhh. Just breathe _malen'kiy medvezhonok_."

The American stopped protesting quick and his eyes grew large. _Ivan, _he thought. _Oh shit its Ivan. What did he call me? Was it bad? Oh god now I'm never going to hear the end of it. Oh god oh god oh god…_

Ivan didn't seem to notice Alfred's distress, though, and started to rub circles in the American's back. His touch was surprisingly light and soothing, and he smelled of sunflowers and clean laundry too, but it was hard to for Alfred to relax when everyone was staring at them.

From somewhere within the crowd of students watching, a person yelled, "HA! THAT'S SO GAY!" A few people laughed and Alfred felt his face heat up, but it didn't bother Ivan. Instead, the Russian just kept rubbing small circles and humming softly. And the American couldn't break free due to how strong his rival was.

Finally, after about five minutes, Ivan let Alfred go. The American, who was calmer than before, turned around to face him. "What –" he began, only to be cut off.

"Something is bothering you," Ivan stated bluntly, making eye contact.

Alfred narrowed his eyes. "Yeah well, it's none of your business."

The Russian shrugged. "True. Are y-"

"I'm _fine, _stop asking."

"_Nyet_, you aren't. Five minutes ago was not 'fine'."

"Yes, it was. I'm just letting off some steam. And didn't I tell you to leave me alone?!"

"_Da_, but I'm not going to."

"Why the hell not?!"

"Because you are not okay, Alfred. You are not 'fine'," Ivan said. His violet eyes seemed concerned and his tone was soft yet stern.

Alfred flinched and walked away from his rival and back to Gilbert's car, not even bothering to say goodbye. He _was_ okay, he _was_ fine. All he needed to do was lose weight and he'd be good to go. Ivan didn't know anything. Ivan didn't know the truth.

Because in truth and actuality, Alfred was hurting; but he was moving forward. He was dealing with it. He was losing weight so he wouldn't feel disgusted with himself. He was _fine._ And no one would tell him different because they would be wrong.

Alfred was right.

Alfred was fine.

Alfred was okay.

* * *

_**Translations:**_

_Alors ferme ta gueule déjà et attention, s'il vous plaît!_ – So shut up already and pay attention, please! **(French)**

_Merci – _Thank you** (French)**

_Non – _No** (French)**

_Fick – _Fuck **(German)**

_Malen'kiy medvezhonok – _Small Bear **(Russian)** [Russian Term of Endearment]

_Nyet – _No** (Russian)**

_Da – _Yes **(Russian)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Oh the holidays! Distracting me from writing this story! :P By the way, HAPPY NEW YEAR!**

**Heh, to be honest I had a lot of options to chose from while writing this. Too many options, if you ask me. For instance, I could've made Alfred run away and there be no sleepover. Or there would be a sleepover; it would just be really awkward. Or something in between even. TOO MANY CHOICES! *Flails arms wildly***

**So this is what I came up with. Love me or hate me for it (just no flames). ^_^**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

He stopped short when he saw the sight before him. His chest tightened and loosened over and over again from guilt and suddenly he felt as if he didn't belong. It was like playing "Who's The Odd One Out?" and having people choose him because he didn't fit with the other choices. The feeling didn't sit right in Alfred's stomach at all. And he hated it. He hated it because it was true. He hated it because it proved his life had been a lie. He hated it because it had caused others _pain_. And what kind of hero inflicts pain on others? Obviously not a very good one.

Alfred shook his head. Who was he kidding? He was no hero. He could never be someone's hero. He could try, but that would only result in failure. The attempt would have him come crashing down within an instant, leaving him broken and battered on the floor. Why should he try? It wasn't as if anyone would want him to be his hero anyway.

Blue eyes welled up in tears as he looked upon the scene again. There was Feliciano fussing over Ludwig, all the while crying. Ludwig had his hand on his stomach and Alfred realized that it was the spot where he'd elbowed his captor. His captor had been Ludwig; Gilbert's brother who hadn't minded if he slept over even though he'd already planned to host Feliciano.

Then there was Gilbert who was hugging a sobbing Matthew. The Canadian was gripping the Prussian's black shirt and was crying on his shoulder. In turn, Gilbert was stroking Mattie's hair in vain effort of comfort. From where Alfred stood fifteen feet away, he could tell that he was also muttering phrases to the mess in his arms. Somehow the American didn't think the sleepover agreement still stood.

It honestly looked as if a disaster had occurred. And maybe it had. Maybe the disaster was _Alfred, _tough as it may seem. Now everyone had their heroes – Matthew's was Gilbert and Feliciano's was Ludwig – to protect them from _him, _a fat whirlwind of out-of-control emotion. Everyone had someone to comfort them and lean on. Matthew had Gilbert and Gilbert had Matthew. Ludwig had Feliciano and Feliciano had Ludwig.

But who would comfort the hurt cyclone known as Alfred?

Alfred looked backwards and saw Ivan still standing there, watching. _No, _he thought brokenly, _Ivan doesn't count. He will never ever count. He just did what he did to humiliate me. That wasn't comfort._

And it suddenly dawned on him, in a split second revelation, that he wasn't wanted. Not by Gilbert. Not by Matthew. Not by Ludwig. Not by Feliciano. Not by Ivan. Not by his parents. They tolerated him – they tried to put up with him – but they didn't want him. _I CAN'T STAND HIM! _ His dad's shout echoed in his ears.

Alfred turned away from the parking lot and began to briskly walk away. Wiping away threatening tears, he internally responded: _It's okay Dad, I get it now. You're right. You're right, you're right, you're right._

_Because I can't stand me either._

* * *

He didn't return home, nor did he answer his phone when someone called or texted him. It wasn't as if anyone would miss him if he disappeared anyway, right? They were probably just calling out of courtesy or politeness. If Alfred told anyone that he rode the bus all the way to the harbor, they wouldn't care.

Eventually the calls and texts stopped.

Alfred sighed and sat on a bench in a park. The setting sun made the ocean sparkle and illuminated the place with orange, purple, and red hues. It was peaceful, and should have taken Alfred out of his misery, but he couldn't help but mope. How long had it been since the first phone call? Was it two or three hours now? Was that how long it took until his family and friends stopped trying and started to celebrate? "_The Wicked Alfred of the West is dead!" _Is that what they would cheer while opening up the champagne bottle?

Suddenly his phone buzzed again. Another phone call. Alfred pulled out his phone from his jeans pocket and read the Caller ID: _Unknown Name, Unknown Number._

Frowning, he decided to answer it out of curiosity. "Hello?" He asked.

"Alfred?"

The American nearly shrieked and threw his phone at a tree when he heard it was Ivan. Instead, he put the phone in his lap and looked at it in revulsion. _What the hell?! _He thought angrily. _How does Ivan know my number?!_

"Alfred? Are you there?"

Said person put his fist in his mouth to stop from screaming in rage.

"Hello?"

Alfred hung up. "I knew it," he chided himself. "I knew I shouldn't have picked up. Damn it! Why do I have to be so _stupid_?"

He got up and punched the nearest tree over and over again in order to let off some steam. Each punch, the tree trunk seemed to morph into a different person's face. First was Matthew, followed by Arthur, which was then followed by Ivan. Herr Beilschmidt's face popped up along with Mr. Adnan's and all the other teachers Alfred hated to some degree.

His hands stared to hurt, but he didn't stop. Rather, he threw his punches _harder. _Eventually there came a noise of something cracking and Alfred _screamed_. Putting his hands close to his eyes – which were now blurry from tears – he saw that they were covered in blood and splinters. On his left hand, two of his fingers from the knuckles upward were bent unnaturally. Alfred thought he was going to be sick. Oh god what had he done to himself?

Alfred looked about the park and to his surprise realized that it was dark. He whimpered, remembering all those horror games he played that took place in a park, and tried not to cry. _Stop being such a baby, _the American told himself weakly. _Hear that? Yeah, that's the sound of cars and civilization, dumbass. Now move your fat butt towards it!_

So Alfred ran as fast as he could out of the park, ignoring the way the pain intensified in his hands from doing so.

* * *

Five terrifying minutes later and Alfred was leaning heavily on the crosswalk sign, out of breath. The park lay behind him – thankfully – and all he wanted to do now was go home. To hell if his parents would shout at him, at least he understood why now.

He pressed the crossing button with his elbow awkwardly since his hands hurt too much. The nearest bus stop wasn't far, maybe he could run to it? It would hurt, but he'd be losing weight. Alfred didn't think he'd be able to do push-ups for a while, which would mean that he'd have to double the amount of curl-ups and running just to make up for it.

And what about food? The American didn't think he could live much longer if he kept on not eating. A diet sounded good, but what would be the best? There were so many to choose from! Maybe a restriction diet would work? Alfred had heard of those from Health Class when they were studying Eating Disorders a few years back. And it wasn't as if _he _had an ED, because he didn't. That was ridiculous. Guys don't have Eating Disorders – those were for girls. Everybody knows that! All he wanted was a diet that could help him lose weight faster. Surely that wasn't so wrong?

The crosswalk sign turned white and Alfred jogged across, gritting his teeth. Damn his hands for getting all cut up and bruised and broken. Now it hurt like hell. When he reached the other side of the intersection, he contemplated on just walking to the bus stop. But then a voice sneered, _What are you? Weak? Run you fatso! Run!_

So Alfred ran. He ran all the way to the bus stop and jogged in place until the bus arrived. He ran up the steps on the vehicle and jogged to an empty seat in the very back. People gave him weird looks, and his gut churned at the thought of strangers thinking of how fat and stupid he looked. He sat down, resting his injured hands in his lap, and tried hard not to tear up. "They're just strangers, they're just strangers," he chanted softly in effort to console himself.

* * *

Thirty minutes later and Alfred was getting off the bus. The voice commanded him to run again, and he obeyed it. _This will make me skinny, this will make me skinny, _he repeated in his mind, ignoring the pain again.

When he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk, Alfred wondered if Charlie Brown had worse luck than he had.

When he saw his dad waiting outside his house on the porch, Alfred concluded that Charlie Brown had nothing on him.

Steeling up his nerves, Alfred got up and jogged up the rest of the way. Arthur's green eyes glinted in the semi-dark like a cat's, and the teenager found himself wishing he hadn't come home. There was no greeting between the two of them as Alfred went inside with Arthur following him. In fact, the silence only made it worse for Alfred. If his dad had shouted at him, that would've been better. If his dad had made some snide remark about him, that would've made it less scary. But as it were, the dad had done nothing other than head to the kitchen, leaving his son alone.

Alfred stood in the foyer not knowing what to do. Head upstairs? Follow his dad? Stand there like an idiot? He glanced at the clock that hung on the wall. 9:30. _Great,_ he mused. _Matthew should still be awake. Isn't that just fuckin' fantastic?_

Looking down at his hands, he decided to clean them up and started to head to the bathroom. The teenager left the door open as he filled the sink with hot water. It would hurt like a bitch, but that was the price of his stupidity, right? "Ah!" He gasped, wincing when the water hit his hands. It _stung_.

After about a minute of getting used to the feeling, he started to wash them. He made sure to get all the blood out along with whatever dirt there was. And when that was done, he drained the water, carefully dried his hands with a towel, and started working on getting the splinters out. It took him a while, but eventually every last bit of wood was out. Alfred applied bandages to his cuts and finally finished mending himself.

But there was still the problem of his broken fingers. Would his parents take him to the ER this late? He didn't think so. Arthur wasn't talking to him and Alfred didn't know where Francis was. Sighing, he walked out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen.

Arthur walked out as soon as he walked in. The motion hurt the teenager, but he carried on like there was no problem. He washed a pear and ate it before going back into the refrigerator and pulling out another. The food felt like lead in his stomach, so he got himself a tall glass of water to wash it down. Francis strolled into the room as that was happening and was shocked to find Alfred there. "_Mon Dieu!" _He exclaimed.

"Hi Papa," Alfred greeted back, trying to keep out the happiness and hurt in his voice. _They don't want you. They don't want you._

"Alfred, where have you been? You wouldn't answer your phone an – _what happened to your shirt?!"_

The teenager's face fell as he looked down. The shirt had blood on it from where he'd rested his hands while on the bus. Never mind that his fingers were broken, just worry about his bloodied shirt. Oh yes, that was his papa's way of thinking. As long as the clothes were alright, you were fine too. If you had a cracked skull and you were bleeding all over the place, so long as none of the blood got on your clothes you were fine. No need to worry.

The logic made Alfred sick.

"Um," he began, feeling embarrassed and stupid. "I, uh, I…"

Francis crossed his arms and glared meaningfully at him to continue. "You…?" He prompted.

Alfred held out his broken hand in response and watched his papa for a reaction, half-expecting a "You'll be fine. It's just swollen a bit.". However the Frenchman walked closer and narrowed his eyes as he gently touched the two cracked fingers. The American winced due to the touch and bit back a scream. "Dear Lord," Francis muttered after a minute. "What did you do to yourself?"

"Ha, this is going to sound pretty dumb but I was at the skate park and landed wrong." A lie; but it was only to save the teen's humiliation.

The American steeled himself for the tangent that was going to follow, but was surprised when none came. Instead, Francis grabbed his wrist – from the other hand – and dragged him into the living room. Arthur was there sitting on one of the white sofas, reading a book by the lamp with his glasses on. He looked tired, almost sad, and when he looked up his green eyes were clouded with millions of emotions. But Alfred guessed it was from the book and not their fallout. "Francis?" He questioned curiously, ignoring Alfred who was standing next to the Frenchman. "When did you get home?"

"Roughly five minutes ago," Francis answered before announcing, "I'm going to the hospital with Alfred."

"What? Why?"

"Have you not seen his hand? Two of his fingers are broken! It's a miracle that he hasn't cried yet."

Arthur got up abruptly. Worry was etched onto his face – shocking Alfred – as he walked over to where his son was standing. "Give me your left hand," he ordered. Alfred did, and let out a hiss as his dad grabbed it and turned it this way and that. Bushy eyebrows furrowed in concern as he lightly touched a broken finger, causing his son to cry out in pain and jerk his hand away. "Blast it, Alfred! What did you do?" There was no malice in his words as he asked that question, only panic and concern.

Alfred stuttered a lying answer. "I-I landed wrong at the skate park…"

"Bollocks," Arthur muttered, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. Turning to his husband, he said, "Francis stay here, I'm taking him to the ER. Hopefully we'll be back shortly."

Both Francis and Alfred had a look of surprise on their faces. But before they could question anything, the Brit grabbed the teenager's uninjured hand and dragged him over to the foyer, mumbling to himself the whole way. Dropping his son's hand, he snatched the keys from a bowl that sat on a table by the stairs. Tossing them to Alfred he commanded, "You already have your jacket on so get in the car. Heat it up; the last thing we want is for your broken hand to freeze."

Catching the keys, Alfred looked at him incredulously. "Why're you –" He started only to be cut off.

"We'll talk in the car. Just do as I say." Then the British man turned to the coat rack and started to search for his coat, leaving the stunned American to do as he was told.

But all Alfred could do was wonder what had gotten into Arthur.

Eventually he came to his senses and made his way out to the car. He unlocked it, getting in the passenger seat and putting the key in the ignition to warm the automobile up. His dad was right, it was _cold_.

A minute or so later and Arthur came running out of the house; hurriedly getting into the car. Slamming the door, he glanced at Alfred quickly before looking out the windshield. Then he revved up the engine and put the car in reverse, looking back to make sure he wouldn't hit anything.

Alfred could see Francis standing by the door watching them leave, and he couldn't help but think about his brother. Where did Mattie go? He hadn't seen him since the school parking lot incident. Surely he would've at least _glimpsed _him by now.

"So," Arthur started while shifting gears. The car he drove had a stick shift because he claimed that it was more reliable than the automatics most Americans drove. "You hid out in the skate park and broke your fingers?"

"U-Uh yeah…" Alfred confirmed shakily, lying once again.

"Bullshit. Even I know you well enough to know that you hardly ever go to the skate park. Where did you really go?"

"Nowhere."

A silence followed and Alfred busied himself by watching all the streetlights blur together. He didn't – he _wouldn't _– tell his dad that he was lying. That was just asking for trouble. Arthur couldn't stand it when someone lied to him straight to his face. And Alfred had been doing a lot of that lately. Besides, why would his dad care? Arthur had never taken an interest into whatever Alfred had to say unless it was to pick out mistakes.

Arthur spoke up just then. "Look, Alfred. I know you're not telling the truth, so just come out and say it. Where were you?"

Alfred didn't respond.

The British man sighed. "You won't get in trouble if you were with a girl doing you-know-what."

The American teenager turned red with embarrassment and he sunk in his seat, wishing he was invisible. "Oh god Dad," he exclaimed. "Why do you have to bring up the sex talk right _now?"_

"Or even if you were with a boy," Arthur continued, ignoring his son's discomfort. "It would be fine. I used to that when I was your age - maybe a little older or so."

"Do I really need to know about your sex life? And how the hell would I break my fingers while fucking somebody?!"

"_Language, Alfred."_

"Sorry."

There was another silence for a while, and the teenager marveled at how long it had been since his dad had talked to him like that. The conclusion was: almost never. Soon, Alfred gradually lost the red in his cheeks and started to regain his composure. But only to sink lower and turn redder than before when his dad said, "It's happened to me before."

"DAD!" Alfred exclaimed, horrified with his eyes wide.

Arthur chuckled. "Point is, is that you must have been doing _something _important enough not to answer your phone. So what was it?"

"Well I was _so not _hooking up with someone." _And I doubt I ever will because of how fat I am…_

"Alright, I believe you."

A stoplight turned red and Arthur rolled to a stop to wait it out. Taking a deep breath in, he said, "Alfred, I have something important I want to tell you."

Alfred glanced at his dad, a bad feeling forming in his stomach. "Yeah?" He asked.

"I just want to say I'm sorry."

* * *

**_Translations:_**

_Mon Dieu _- My God **(French)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: *Squeals and dances around bedroom like a lunatic* Thanks so much for the 60 reviews, 77 favorites, and 112 follows! Like seriously, I'm so happy right now I can't even begin to explain! I didn't know this story would attract so many readers, what with the topic being done so many times before, but now that it has I can't stop smiling about it. Thanks so much people! ^_^**

***Calms down* Now, as for this chapter, all I'm saying is: This is a filler; Native America is America's biological mom; Vladimir Braginsky is the name I gave General Winter; and just when you think things are getting better~…*mischievous smile and walks away***

**Disclaimer: Nope. Nada. Nichts. Non. Nyet. Do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Not daring to breathe, Alfred looked at Arthur. He knew it had taken his dad a lot to set aside his pride and apologize, but for some reason he just couldn't fathom _why. _Why now? Why didn't he apologize sooner, when things weren't so estranged between them? And that wasn't all that was bugging the teen. He also didn't trust the apology. Never once in the time he had lived in the Kirkland-Bonnefoy house had Arthur apologized to him. It had always been either Matthew or Francis doing it for him. Another question danced on his tongue: _what?_ What was Arthur regretting? Was he regretting the sex talk or the fallout or every bad thing he did to Alfred?

The American knew that he should accept the apology right away and let that be the end of it; but he just couldn't. Not with so many questions dancing around in his mind.

Not with the hope that maybe – just _maybe_ – the two could have a normal father-son relationship.

He wouldn't completely forgive him right away. Oh no, he wouldn't; not with all the shit he had to deal within the past few years. But slowly over time he might. So Alfred swallowed the lump of foreboding in his throat and asked, "For?"

As expected, Arthur tensed and a voice crossed Alfred's mind warning: _Do you see now? You're making your dad uncomfortable. He's a ticking time bomb, one wrong thing and he'll blow. Stop it right now if you want a shot at normal._

The British man ran a hand through his hair and eased onto the gas when the light switched back to green. "I'm sorry," he started, looking out the windshield, "for not telling you sooner."

Both the hope and the bad feeling rose as Alfred stared in shock. _This is it; this is the moment I've been waiting for where he apologizes, _one part of him exclaimed while another sneered, _This is it; he's breaking the news that you're going to be disowned for being too much of a nuisance. _

The teen took in a shaky breath and broke his gaze away to look out the windshield too. "Telling me what?" He prodded on carefully.

Arthur's eyes darted from the windshield, to his son's face, and back to the windshield again. "Telling you about how I really feel, Alfred. It shouldn't have come out the way it did in the fight, what with me yelling, and that was wrong. I should've just calmed down and spoke in a level voice and told you the truth."

"And was what you yelled the truth?"

Arthur didn't answer, and it wasn't as if he needed to anyway. Alfred now knew the truth, however horrible and acidic it was. Alfred now knew the big, ugly, terrible truth.

His whole world nearly _shattered_.

He couldn't see; he couldn't breathe; he couldn't hear; he couldn't think_. _He felt…numb, to say the least. Like the world lost all feeling and everything was in black and white and gray. So this was what had gotten into Arthur. This was his master plan. Warm up to his son; give him a taste of what will never be; and then BAM! Shatter the world by going back to his normal cold self.

And this wasn't the apology Alfred had been hoping for. This wasn't the apology he had been expecting. But what was he to do? Throw it away? It was the _only_ apology he had ever gotten – and probably ever will get – from Arthur, and he should savor it no matter how bitter the taste.

So why didn't he want to?

_I CAN'T STAND HIM! I wish he was more like Matthew…Can't go messing it up like always…Can't there be just one day – __**one day**__, Alfred, that's all I ask – where I feel good and proud about adopting you? Not ashamed of it? Pray to God I don't see your fat, disgusting face…Heaven forbid if the nearest McDonald's gets robbed because of you…Has that ever occurred in your egotistical mind? You're already fat enough as it is, or do you not get that?_

…Oh…

The jarring words snapped Alfred out of his daze.

…Oh…

He could see again; he could think; he could hear; he could feel.

_Oh._

And in those few recovering seconds all he could feel was anger. Hurt anger rising from his heart and spreading into his veins. Ten fucking years – ever since he was _six _– of verbal putdowns and comparisons and this is the kind of apology he gets?! A half-assed apology that hurts more than soothes?! No…no…that just can't be right…That just can't be true.

"Is that," the teen started, struggling to keep his voice calm, "it? That's the only apology you're going to give me?"

Arthur looked at him and narrowed his eyes. "What? Are you being ungrateful now? I set aside my _pride _to apologize and that's how you repay me?"

"N-No… but –"

"But what, Alfred? I loved you like my own son, taught you things, raised you, and am now taking you to the hospital due to your stupidity and that is how you repay me? By saying, 'that's it?'."

Alfred wanted to scream. He wasn't trying to be ungrateful. He wasn't trying to upset his dad. He was just done waiting for something that looked like it would never happen, but at the same time did. Gripping the seat with his good hand, he growled, "No. No that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean? Because frankly, Alfred, you've been a mess lately. Just what is wrong with you? Has it finally gone through your thick head that you don't own the world? That Matthew is better than you? That you're fat and not –"

"STOP! STOP IT!" The teen shouted, clutching his ears. He was falling apart, he could feel it. "I can't handle you always making snide comments about my weight and my failures. I can't handle you always comparing me with Mattie. I just can't _handle it."_

"Why not? Is it because you can't handle the real world? Is that what you're trying to say? If so then _GROW UP!" _Arthur's face was red and he was clutching the steering wheel with trembling hands so he wouldn't hit Alfred. "You need to learn your goddamn place in the world, Alfred. That's what you need to do. You need to learn to respect your superiors and peers and not go yelling at them and punching them. You need to know when you're in the wrong. You need to learn not to be so fucking stupid that you break your bones. And most of all, you need to learn to be grateful, you fat, loathsome, ungrateful son of a bitch!"

If his dad had slapped him, it wouldn't have hurt as bad as what he had just said. If his dad had slapped him, maybe the teen could retaliate. If his dad had slapped him, perhaps their relationship would be different for the better - crazy as that may seem.

_But Arthur hadn't slapped Alfred._

Well, at least not physically. Mentally yes; but didn't he always? Every single putdown and comment and comparison – weren't they all just a slap in the face? A wake up call to reality? _Earth to Alfred! Here's your daily dose of reality, comin' right at ya!_

And maybe…maybe…just maybe…Alfred deserved them.

Maybe…just maybe…Alfred was really all of the things his dad said he was.

The American numbly turned and looked out the passenger window, putting his head to the glass. The windowpane was cool against his skin and rattled underneath from the motion of the car. And then he thought.

He couldn't recollect much from his mother – as he was only four when she left him – but vividly he could picture her beside him, reading a book. She had a small figure, but was strong, and her skin color was light brown. Her long, black hair was pulled into a braid most of the time and she smelled of pine trees. Alfred could remember that only because of the way she had hugged him goodbye for the last time. He hadn't known what was going on at that point, but he knew it wasn't good. So he had started to cry. But his mom hadn't even turned around to look at him.

But the question was: Was his mom a bitch?

Somehow Alfred didn't think so, but maybe that was just his biased opinion from being her biological son. After all, he couldn't remember much other than vivid, happy memories. But what if she really was a bitch? Arthur and Francis clearly showed their distaste when he brought the topic up, saying that he was theirs now and to forget about her. And she had abandoned him when he was small – but Alfred knew that there was a special reason for that. There just _had _to be otherwise it wouldn't make sense. What kind of mom abandons her child like that? Either way, Arthur had no right to bring her into the conversation like that.

Or did he? In the end, Arthur had raised Alfred and was his adoptive father. He made the rules of the house and was the one with absolute authority. So, ultimately, he had a right to call Alfred whatever he liked.

Fat, loathsome, ungrateful. Check, check, check. Alfred already knew that he was all those things. However it still bothered him. Especially the fat part, but he was working on it. Wasn't he? He was running, he was exercising, and he was dieting; so why wasn't he wasn't losing any weight? _You lost a pound, remember? _He thought in effort to comfort himself.

But then he heard his dad's voice sneering: _But you're still a fatass. One pound doesn't make a difference. Lose more before you congratulate yourself, wanker._

And the American – surprisingly – didn't even feel angry at the voice anymore. Clench his hands, squeeze his eyes shut – he did none of it. Instead, he felt himself silently agreeing to every last, hurtful, imaginary word.

Overall he felt broken inside; but he could mend the broken feeling just like his broken fingers. Only he'd do it without a cast and mend it with weight loss. Once he lost enough, he was sure the feeling would go away.

It just had to.

"Come on, ingrate," Arthur snapped at Alfred suddenly, parking the car in the parking lot. "We've arrived."

Alfred's only response was getting out of the car and closing the door. The hospital stood before them in all its bittersweet glory, windows illuminated and doors unlocked to receive patients. The two trudged towards it and made their way to the Emergency Room, where they checked in and waited. The pain in the teenager's fingers was dull now that he had grown accustomed to it, but that didn't make it any more comforting.

Looking about the room, he realized that it was unusually quiet. There were barely any people there. Just this one elderly couple; a sick little boy who was coughing and shaking nonstop, much to the mother's distress; Arthur and him; and finally a woman who had a swollen cheek and black eye. So it wasn't any surprise when his name was called relatively shortly after.

The nurse led Alfred and Arthur to a room, asking standard questions. That was fine with Alfred; he answered the questions easily. And whatever he couldn't answer Arthur did for him, taking on the act of a worried father. It scared the teen that his dad could put on a mask and lie so quickly. However, he wasn't surprised. He'd seen it happen countless times whenever someone was over or they were somewhere in public. It was the only time Arthur was actually _nice _to Alfred.

But what scared the American the most was when people believed the charade. When people would look at his family and say, "Wow, what a nice family they are. They have it all! Caring parents, ideal boys, a fine house to live in…that must be the perfect lifestyle."

But the strangers didn't realize how wrecked they were. How fractured his family really was. How his dad would inflict hurtful comments right where it hits the hardest; how his brother was the favored child who didn't do anything wrong; how his papa would constantly nag him or get in a fight with Arthur. If there was one word Alfred could use to describe his family, it wouldn't be "perfect". It would be "dysfunctional".

Suddenly Arthur's voice penetrated his thoughts and brought him back down to reality, joking, "Alfred, are you alright? Don't go zoning out on us now."

There was an edge to the words that only Alfred heard and he grimaced, translating it in his head. _Pay attention and don't make me look like someone who raised an idiot. Or else. _"Yeah, Dad," he lied. "I'm fine. Just a little distracted 'cause of my hand and all."

The nurse smiled at him and chimed in, "Oh that's perfectly okay. Heck, it's normal even. Just get on the scale over there so I can measure your weight and you're all good to go see the doctor."

Alfred looked to where she was pointing, his stomach churning when he saw the scale. "Um, do I _have _to go? I mean, I only broke my finger…"

"True, but this is how we run things here. It's in case you need a surgery or something else happens."

"But that seems a little farfe–"

"_Just_ _do it, Alfred," _the Brit ordered, eyes narrowing.

The American swallowed whatever words he was going to say and reluctantly walked over to the scale. Getting on it, he couldn't help but think; _God now the nurse will know exactly how much I weigh. She'll think I'm fat. And Arthur too - he'll never let me hear the end of it. Why do I have to be so fat? _

But when the nurse was finished weighing him (and measuring his height), she made no other comment than, "The doctor will see you shortly" before leaving them alone.

Arthur slumped into a chair, looking tired. Glancing at his watch he muttered, "Great. Just perfect."

"What is it?" Alfred asked.

"I'm missing the new episode of Sherlock just because of you."

"I thought it had already aired by the time I got home?"

"Well you thought wrong. As always."

The teenager didn't even try to apologize.

An uneasy silence passed before the British man inquired calmly, "So my boy, how much did the scale say?"

"178." So the American had lost another pound – probably from the afternoon's events – but he still felt like he was going to throw up.

Arthur snorted and shook his head, messy blonde hair swaying back and forth. Then he started to laugh.

Alfred smiled uneasily, bracing himself for whatever would come next. Usually when his dad laughed at him, a shitstorm followed. And he so did not want one right then.

Arthur stopped laughing and opened his mouth to say something when a knock sounded from the door, cutting him off. The doctor entered in with his white uniform and closed the door behind him. Alfred. Couldn't. Breathe. The doctor wasn't just any doctor, oh no it wasn't. This doctor just had to be Ivan's grandfather. Alfred could tell. He'd seen him before.

Vladimir Braginsky made his way towards them, realization dawning on his features. His pale eyes sparkled with interest and his gray moustache quirked upwards when he smiled. The smile seemed to make the American's blood grow cold – he never felt comfortable being around him. Briefly he wondered how Ivan could stand living with the guy, but then he remembered that Ivan was a freak. And psychotic. And weird. And creepy. And Russian.

"Greetings," Vladimir said in his very thick Russian accent.

_Dude, this guy's accent is even thicker than Ivan's. How will I be able to understand him? _Alfred panicked. _Oh no. What if he tricks me into signing a contract that makes me a communist? What then? I don't want to be a communist! What if he says something critical and I won't be able to comprehend it due to his speech? OMG I'd be so doomed…_

Arthur stood up and shook hands with the doctor. "Hello, Mr. Braginsky. Fancy meeting you here; I didn't realize you had a medical degree."

"Well yes, I do. Medicine is medicine no matter where you go."

"So I assume you got your education in Russia?"

"Da, that is correct."

"And might I ask just why you had to leave your homeland?"

"Nyet, I'd appreciate it if you did not," Vladimir rejected curtly. Turning to Alfred, he asked, "_Zdravstvuyte_, Alfred."

The teen shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "H-Hi, Dr. Braginsky…"

"What brings you here?"

"Um...I think I broke my hand…"

"And may I see this so-called broken hand?"

So the American meekly held out his left hand, not wanting to upset the older Russian man. That guy scared the shit out of him for some strange reason and he didn't want to be on his bad side. But that didn't mean that he liked it when Vladimir chuckled as he examined his hand. "Can you move your fingers?" The doctor inquired.

"Can't. It hurts too much."

"Let's go take an X-ray then."

And then the three were off running tests and helping to get the injured teen fixed up.

* * *

Francis opened up the door for Arthur and Alfred when they finally got home two hours later. "Well that took longer than expected, oui?" He asked when they were all inside the house.

"Can it, frog!" His husband snapped, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up.

Francis raised an eyebrow but didn't question it, figuring Arthur was merely tired. Turning to his son, he noticed that Alfred was now sporting a hot pink cast that started at his fingers and stopped at his wrist. "So it the fingers were broken after all?"

His son nodded tiredly while slipping out of his shoes.

"And hot pink was the chosen color?"

"It was the only color they had."

The Frenchman nodded in understanding. "If you are hungry or thirsty I can make you something," he offered.

Alfred shook his head and declined, "No thanks, Papa. I think I'll just to go to bed."

"Hmm…If you want you can stay home tomorrow."

Arthur looked at Francis as if he'd just grown another head. "Francis!" He exclaimed.

Said person turned to the other man and merely shrugged. "What? It's Friday and I have off. And Alfred needs to recuperate anyway, right? Where is the harm in him staying home?"

Before his husband could say anything, Alfred gave a small smile. "Really? I can really stay home tomorrow?"

"Oui. I'll call the school and tell them that you're sick."

"Thank you so much, Papa."

"It's nothing. Now go to bed."

Giving another small smile, Alfred left. Francis and Arthur watched him go before heading off to the living room, wherein the Brit flung himself on one of the sofas. The Frenchman sat down on another and asked, "So how did the apology go?"

Arthur glared at him. "It didn't work," he answered bluntly.

"Why not?"

"Alfred was being Alfred. So, by natural definition, he just completely threw the apology out the window."

It was silent as Francis digested the information. Somehow, it seemed like something Alfred would do; but at the same time it didn't. He got the feeling that his husband wasn't telling him everything. So he took a wild stab in the dark and guessed, "Did you lose your temper again?"

"No…" Arthur growled. But after seeing Francis' knowing look, admitted, "Oh alright maybe just a little. But he made me so mad because he was so rude to me after I apologized!"

The blue-eyed man sighed. "You can't keep doing that if you ever want a better relationship with him, _bien adoré._"

"I know," the green-eyed one acknowledged, voice cracking slightly as he blinked swiftly. "I know. But I just can't help myself and that makes me so angry and I wind up taking it out on him most of the time and – bloody hell I'm blubbering like a girl now."

"Oui, but that's alright; you are probably tired. Come on, let's go to bed. Tomorrow will be better."

Arthur nodded and got up, taking Francis' offered hand - he was too tired to protest otherwise – and together they made their way to the bedroom. After doing all his nightly routines, the Brit collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Maybe tomorrow would be better after all.

* * *

_**Translations:**_

_Zdravstvuyte – _Hello **(Russian)**

_Bien adore – _Darling **(French)**


End file.
